Daddy Issue

CW: death, car crash, suicidal ideation/self-harm, hallucination

https://youtu.be/OkrUKTGv1ao

There is no reply to

the prayers I whisper –

the prayers I scream –

I …  am selfish,

insomuch as every poem is about me

because every poem is about you –

Selfish in the way I hold your memory

in every street corner every pen stroke

– selfish …

Like you’re still here. Like 

you’re just grabbing some coffee … some smokes … 

some thing - any thing – that means you’ll be back

but, men, kill men, every, damn, day

my poem cannot stop you from bleeding out

my poem does not even know it is just 

a poem

I hold no hate to the man

(and I assume that it is a man)

that killed you.

He did not know any better

(we never do)

So, I take my Lamictal every night

the Abilify sits somewhere in the corner of my room

from - a “fit” of “rage” – that maybe I

heard your voice amongst those in my brain

my brain… 

quiets. under the pills – shadows

dance at the edge of my vision 

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …  

I thought it was you

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … 

My pills make you go away

they make my blood red, not gold

You see – my blood … wants me dead (like you)

Wants me to (gut myself) tear the knife (like you

tore on concrete) to save the 

lizards (crawling)

in my stomach.

It wants me to carve this poem into my lungs

My blood – – – 

my blood wants me to kill myself

(hanging from the rafters) I had to take away

my blood’s shoelaces (razor blade | kitchen knife)

I had to ration its cough syrup 

(1 sheep, 2 sheep, 3)

We’ve tried CBT ABA DBT EKG – My blood doesn’t want to do today’s journal.

– – – but it will

It’s on the way [my blood] is not my own

(like my last name, it is a gift, like the guitar picks in my backpack)

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … 

I don’t like the blues – don’t like jazz – don’t

like the way your guitar catches in my throat

don’t like the … lullabies 

The  way    my     eyes   drift —-

(to the side of the road)

to the possum – that crossed too late — (torn open on asphalt)

I don’t like the blues

I find - they put me – too harshly — 

to sleep

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … 

I wake up, covered in blood like

every night since you left

Checked all my old scars to make sure

they hadn’t closed up yet

(but it hadn’t been me)

(had only been you)

(bleeding through the 

seam of my shirt)

I had only been me

standing on your stage…

Holy ground… Sacred ground… 

Hole-filled ground – scared to ground

myself against the cold cold blood in January

my bleeding pen sacrilegious paper

sifting through trashy poetry

Looking for you — always — looking for you — 

in my words.

am i cloth . bone . my father’s . dna . his

little poet boy — po’try boy

(begging to go home)

(to a life of absence)

Somebody makes a joke

about a car crash and I see you

bloodied        I see you

bloodied  my ribs ache

are they bruised like you were?

are they broken like you were?

Somebody makes a joke

am i broken       like you were?

Broken like the trees you shattered with

the aluminum baseball bat that sits by my head,

it’s dented — (like you were?)

It’s seen its years of grief

after all

the skye wept the day you left

What bastard son am I?

See … I

am half of you.

half the man you’ll ever be

half the words you’d ever speak

half the picture frame …

half … the … poem

have the guts to tell you

I changed my last name.

I couldn’t handle the weight 

of you on my chest

Couldn't bare your sins on collateral 

with my own— your son is dead

I am all that remains

his words are all that remains 

You see,

my father and I view poetry

differently

Poetry has never been my bastard lover

never a graveyard

never knife wounds

an overdose

Poetry is medicinal

A salve to lessen the scars 

A suture to stop us from bleeding 

out onto the page

Poetry is salvation

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … 

my father and i

view po’try

differently,

to say the least.

Perhaps, that is because,

He 

views poetry as some thing,

and I

view po’try, as

him.